


Strange Bedfellows

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Slash, Smut, secret evil plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um, they shared a room in this episode—cue the following obligatory fic!  Fairly fluffy and dialogue heavy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> Lame title is lame, but apt. Eternal thanks to my multilingual beta [](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/profile)[**windfallswest**](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Strange Bedfellows  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** during (and after) The Hounds of Baskerville  
 **Author's Notes:** Lame title is lame, but apt. Eternal thanks to my multilingual beta [](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/profile)[**windfallswest**](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/).  
 **Summary:** Um, they shared a room in this episode—cue the following obligatory fic! Fairly fluffy and dialogue heavy.

 

 

John can't breathe. He's overheated and claustrophobic and he can't quite work out—

Sherlock's hair is in his face. Because he's completely twined around John in the single bed in their single room. Sherlock's still wearing his coat like a lunatic, which explains why it's so bloody hot. It does not explain why he's in John's bed. Well, their bed. Okay, just _the bed_.

Sherlock exhales hotly against John's collarbone and it startles him into action. He pushes away from Sherlock with some difficulty, and is still working on extricating his arm from underneath him when Sherlock's eyes fly open.

"Good morning, John."

"Good—is that all you have to say?"

"Isn't that what people normally say to one other in the morning?"

"It's . . . look, just, _move_ , would you?" John finally succeeds in freeing his arm, shifts away from Sherlock on the tiny bed as much as possible, glad to have put some space between them so he can think. "What are you doing _sleeping_ anyway?"

"What do you take me for?" Offended. "A vampire? I’m not the only pale bloke in the country, you know."

" _No_ , just." John hmphs. "I dunno, I suppose I thought you’d spend the wee small hours of the morning pacing and muttering and whatever it is you do when I’m sleeping."

Sherlock’s tight-lipped, clearly trying to find a way to plausibly deny this. Eventually he sighs. "Yes, all right."

"Anyway." John tries to gesture, although it's no easy feat while lying on his side half-asleep with Sherlock's eyes boring into him. "What are you doing, then?" He's finally blinked the world into focus enough to get a good look at Sherlock. Sherlock is radiating heat like nobody's business, and despite being fully clothed he has the sheets pulled up to his chin protectively. His hair's smashed from the angle he'd been sleeping at and his mouth looks fuller than usual because he hasn't woken up enough to tense his every feature. His eyes are the only thing about him that don't feel different, but then Sherlock blinks lazily and spoils it.

"Sleeping," Sherlock says patiently.

"What?"

"You asked what I was doing."

"Oh, right." Yeah, that made sense.

Sherlock is looking at him like he's the stupidest person on the face of the planet, which is notable only because he then scoots closer and cuddles up to John again—cuddles! _Cuddling!_ Egads.

"Right, and . . . what're you doing now?"

"I think that should be obvious."

John laughs, which shakes his body a bit, which means he's instantly aware of every single point at which they're touching and how very warm it all is. "I meant _why_ are you doing it?"

Sometimes, Sherlock looks ordinary. Other times he looks a bit alien. And still other times, like right now, he looks startlingly young, too pretty around the eyes and wearing an open, deceptively innocent expression. "You're speaking to me," he deflects. "Does this mean you're through with your little tantrum?"

"Okay, Sherlock, you _do realize_ this is not normal behavior?"

"Social circles spin too fast for me."

"No they don't."

"No, they don't. But I don't care to pay attention."

John stares down at Sherlock, thinks how novel it is to not be craning his neck back just to look him in the eye. Usually he only got to look down at someone if they were a child, which rarely happened, or girlfriends, who tended to look right through him and see nothing anyway.

Sherlock hasn't blinked once, which John's used to by now, but which is especially potent-feeling at this range. I mean, Sherlock did unexpected things all that time, but usually they were only unexpected in relation to normal behavior. Snuggling up to John like a kid frightened by a nightmare was decidedly unexpected in relation to normal _Sherlock_ behavior, and–ohh, hang on.

Very, very carefully, John says, "It's okay to be scared, you know. It's not the end of the world."

Sherlock scoffs, and the vibration of his voice against John's apparently tissue thin shirt is off-puttingly intimate when he says, "I'm not 'scared'." He then proceeds to curl even tighter around John like a bloody climbing vine.

"No no, of course not." John can't help smiling, and weren't they supposed to be in a fight? John didn't usually resent being shut out by Sherlock, but when Sherlock was being so breathtakingly human and opening up to him, in the first place, then John didn't appreciate being told to bugger off when he tried to help. He didn't like being reminded that Sherlock really didn't need him, in the end—that he was just useful and handy and did whatever Sherlock wanted, so really it's his own fault . . .

Infuriatingly, Sherlock chooses this moment to decide, "You're not still angry with me," and smiles broadly back at him.

"Oh, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't be false with me. Don't flash your pretend smiles and expect me to buy it."

"I smile, sometimes," Sherlock protests.

John raises an eyebrow.

"Shut up."

John raises the other eyebrow.

Sherlock sort of growls before throwing back the sheets and stalking over to his suitcase. He throws off his coat with his usual flourish, shrugs out of his jacket so casually and starts in on the buttons of his shirt like it's perfectly normal. John looks away, feels suddenly intrusive.

It's not weird, dammit, it's just mates sharing a room like, like at uni or in the service or whatever. It's not _weird_.

John looks over at Sherlock, now buttoning up that clingy purple shirt of his, and meets his eyes, glimpses that secret soft cast to them that showed up every so often and overheats because you know, it's unexpected and anyway it _is_ really very warm in here. All these bloody sheets, and all.

*

One of the owners of the inn answers the bell looking rushed as hell, makes his excuses and promises he'll be right with them.

Sherlock is silent while they wait for his return. Then, like he's been mulling over it for awhile, Sherlock tells Lestrade, "Odd you're doing work without pay."

"Has it ever occurred to you I do my job out of a sense of civic duty, and not just for the money?" Lestrade says.

"No."

John mostly succeeds in hiding his smirk from Lestrade. He notices Sherlock noticing though, so then he has to cough to keep from laughing. John's relieved that Sherlock had at least attempted apology, if only because that meant they could go back to working the case without any distractions. John had stormed off during cases before, but somehow it never seemed worth it when the alternative was adrenaline and not knowing what came next and the constant drive to keep up with Sherlock and try to maybe, just maybe outwit him for once.

John must've still been smiling, because Sherlock glances over and remarks, "Less depressed these days, aren't you."

"I'm not—what makes you think I was depressed? Oh don't tell me—the way I fold up newspapers or something, was it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You've always been depressed."

John laughs. "Just because the rest of the population isn't _you_ doesn't mean they're depressed."

"In your case it does."

"Are we really going to do this? Do you really want me to go on about everything that's wrong with _you_? Because I really don't think you do."

"There's nothing wrong with me." _Weren't you listening?_ his follow-up glare adds.

"Well, okay, but come on, you are a bit obsessive. And wordy like, you know. Idiosyncratic. And you aren't the most, er, compassionate of people." Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. "And no matter how clever you are, you still sometimes miss social cues and, you know, just _you_ know . . ."

Sherlock is glaring.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with it," John scrambles. "You are clearly able to function."

"Yes. And much more efficiently than you, I might add."

"So what is this, exactly?" John asks, even though he knows asking questions is a terrible tactic for getting Sherlock off your back. "You're bored and you're, what, analyzing me?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's insane, which isn't that unusual, really. "Yes."

There's a lengthy pause. Glasses clink and conversation murmurs on in the background.

Lestrade takes the opportunity to down a significant portion of his beer. "You're a bloody saint, John," he says. "I've no idea how you put up with him 24/7."

"Well it's no great mystery why John took a flat with a complete stranger–" Sherlock turns on John, then talks like he isn't there at all. "You were intrigued. People usually are. But why do you stick around? That's the real question. The promise of adventure? Of course. The excitement of the puzzle? The adrenaline rush? Certainly. But I can also be quite awful to you, so perhaps you are in fact as unimpressed by societal niceties as I am–you _have_ seen the truly dark side of human nature. Society is such a thin veneer over all that. Or _maybe_ it's that you feel you deserve poor treatment, some subconscious need to—"

"Masochism's a bit of a reach, isn't it?" John snorts. "And actually, you _don't_ know what really makes me tick. And that keeps _you_ interested."

Sherlock digests this. "All right–next hypothesis, then: you are a risk-seeker. You've a bit of a death drive–"

John laughs. "I was in the military—you don't need to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to deduce that there's some risk seeking involved–"

"Fine fine, perhaps you simply can't help clinging to the idea that you can fix me or something equally moronic."

John laughs. "What makes you think I'm trying to? Don't you–"

"Narcissistic supplier . . ." Sherlock is muttering to himself.

John raises his eyebrows. "Calling yourself a narcissist?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Nah, that doesn't quite fit. Narcissism implies my abilities aren't impressive."

"Okay, _don't_ you know that I'm quite possibly the only person who doesn't think you need to be fixed?"

"Hm." Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets, walks around behind the bar like that's perfectly normal, scanning everything within sight since he's clearly bored with conversation.

Lestrade is just blinking dumbly in his wake, which John always finds surreal to watch because that's likely what John does all the time. "Right," Lestrade says, exchanges a look with John to which John can only shrug, then calls after Sherlock: "Well, I'd be interested to know why, deep down and subconsciously, _I_ haven't told you to bugger off yet."

Sherlock doesn't even turn around in his perusal of the glasses (what, did they have magical incriminating DNA on them that only Sherlock could detect?) to say, "Oh, you just need me because you're incompetent."

"Right, of course," Lestrade says. "And that's different from John how?"

"John doesn't need me. He just wants me."

John looks skyward for help. "I'm _still_ here, you know."

Sherlock makes his way back onto the correct side of the bar, glances about before noticing John again, does look a bit like he's forgotten. "Well, why do _you_ think we're—" Tiniest of pauses. "—friends."

John shrugs. "Friendship is an involuntary reflex—it just happens, you can’t help it."

"Hm." Sherlock is clearly tucking this away in his file on ordinary people with a little note attached that says _Further research needed_.

"Oi," Lestrade says, points at the doorway as the owners of the inn walk in.

*

When John wakes up the next morning, he's even warmer. That's because he's apparently taken it upon himself to cuddle up to Sherlock, this time. He wonders briefly if this is all part of the same recurring dream, because I mean, why were they still even _at_ the inn? The case was over.

Sherlock's wearing considerably less clothing than last time, half the buttons of his pajama shirt undone to reveal such an expanse of very real skin. He can smell Sherlock, from here. With his face pressed against Sherlock's chest and their legs hopelessly intertwined, John can smell that particular Sherlock smell that came from his room or his clothes or when he leaned across John to scold a cabbie. And he's so _warm_. Hot, really. John finds he has no desire to move, but his common sense seems pretty insistent that he do exactly that, so he starts to shift carefully away.

Somehow, this backfires completely and instead causes John to roll onto his back and Sherlock to topple on top of him and awaken. Sherlock's hair is knotted and in his face, and one of his eyebrows is messed up from pressing into pillows. His eyes are bleary, and his mouth is relaxed and pouting and dark pink.

"Why're we still here," John says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Gary insisted we stay one night free of charge, do you not remember? He was apologizing so profusely you thought it best to just give in and take him up on the offer. Hm. Relentless apologizing does work rather well on you, doesn't it?"

John laughs, which makes him suddenly, breathlessly aware of the fact that Sherlock is hard. Hard and pressing into John's thigh and apparently perfectly content to ignore it. Sherlock's eyes flick back and forth, and then he squints and brings his face much, much closer to John's.

"What." What are you doing? What the hell is this? Are you trying to kill me? Are you going to just kiss me now and have done, already?

"Your eyes."

"Um. Sorry, are you about to rhapsodize on their transcendent beauty?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, as though John is being highly inappropriate. He then shifts so that John is reminded once again of how undeniably aroused he is. "Difficult to pinpoint the color." Peering closer, now. "What would you _call_ that?"

"Boring. It's called boring. Say, would you mind possibly getting off of me, or—?"

"Definitely not boring." Sherlock's got to stop leaning like that, because if he goes much further John is going to have to tilt his head a bit so they can kiss. If they kiss. When they kiss? And _why_ had his brain got this far along this particular train of thought?

"B-blue," John stammers. "Bluish. Let's just go with that, right?" John tries to shove Sherlock aside and escape but Sherlock holds him down, and John's heart races because _of course it does_ , hello, Sherlock is on top of him and staring at him in that, that _way_ of his and oh, did I mention? He's got a raging hard-on, actually, and apparently neither of them is going to acknowledge this.

"Indigo," Sherlock says, sort of sneers it really, then rolls off of him and off the bed.

John lets go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, shakes his head in a futile attempt to clear it and sits up to watch Sherlock because that's more or less John's de facto job description—watching Sherlock. And it could get very tiring.

 _Sarah_ had been calm. Calm was good. I mean, there was only so much of Sherlock he could take.

. . . John's rather glad he hadn't said that last bit aloud. And hang on just a minute, since when is Sherlock to be compared with John's ex-girlfriends?

 _Since he molested you, just now,_ John's common sense supplies. _And since you weren't exactly adverse to it._

 _Oh bugger off, there's such a thing as morning wood, you know,_ John's healthy dose of denial counters.

"John?" Sherlock says cautiously.

Oh, so now John's just completely insane, is it? Sherlock's going to have John committed, probably. And you know, he has really got to stop having schizophrenic conversations with himself, especially when Sherlock's around to notice and raise an eyebrow at him.

*

Sherlock holding court at a table littered with science equipment while John hovers nearby and at the ready just feels natural, now. It's odd how easily they're able to transpose the mundane little rhythms of their life to chilly old streets or taxis or, in this case, top secret government labs. It's mainly odd in that it doesn't _feel_ odd at all. John quite likes the ability to bring a sense of comfort and unassailable confidence with you wherever you go. Perhaps this is what Sherlock feels like all the time.

"I still can't believe you drugged me."

"Seriously?" Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope he's been glued to for the last twenty minutes.

''Remind me why we're still here, again?" John says. "There's a train in another two hours—I'd thought we were taking it."

"This lab's facilities are extremely well equipped. It's a unique opportunity to investigate things they don't have the capacity for at Barts."

"'Kay . . ." John watches him, isn't so sure. "What _are_ you doing, anyway?"

"Well it's just a simple–wait, do you honestly want to know?"

"Nope. Just thought if I could get you talking about yourself you'd stop talking about me."

Sherlock snorts.

John counts that as a victory, decides he'd best give up while he's ahead and crosses to the least cluttered desk in the lab, pulls out his notebook and sifts through his notes on the case. He flips to a blank page and starts writing a rough draft for the blog because what else was he supposed to do? Sherlock couldn't be persuaded when he was engrossed in something. John would have to cope.

Really John should have no trouble focusing on the case. Sherlock was right—it had been brilliant. Instead, John finds himself rereading the same lines and zoning out and wondering about Sherlock's new and increasingly baffling habit of sleeping with John.

 _Just_ sleeping, okay? It doesn't mean anything.

No, look, it really _doesn't_ mean anything, but it's just that they keep ending up pressed against each other and far too close and too hot and leaving John frantically unsure of whether it had been John's own doing, just you know, _subconsciously_.

If John was being logical, he'd say it was some elaborate experiment of Sherlock's, so asking him about it was bound to be fruitless, anyway. Or wait, maybe _Sherlock_ was only doing it subconsciously . . .

If John was being honest with himself, though, there was a part of him that hoped, if it _was_ an experiment, that it was at least a John-specific one, no matter how inconsiderate it might've been. John didn't care about being treated this way or that—he only cared about not being treated like he was ordinary. Which he was, but still.

John really does think Sherlock might be a gay, _if_ anything–mostly he thinks Sherlock doesn't know what he is or much care to figure it out, as it isn't useful. If only Sherlock understood the rewards of sex—not just the getting off bit, the skill you developed and how you had to pay close attention to reactions and things. Sherlock would be good at that, probably. Yes, he'd . . . yes.

The point is, sex wasn't boring. They should have some.

. . . Sherlock should.

"Why 'cheerful'?"

John hates himself for jumping at Sherlock's sudden proximity. "Oh _just_ . . . what now?"

Sherlock points, smudges the ink. " 'Cheerful Doctor Bob Frankland'. Why 'cheerful'?"

"Well, I dunno . . . he was, you know, rather cheerful. Murderous rage aside, you understand."

Sherlock hasn't been listening. "A transparent ploy to avert suspicion from the actual murderer to keep the story engaging to the reader," he decides.

"No, I was just _saying_ –"

"What, then?" Sherlock's eyes flicker over the rest of John's rough draft. "You don't normally qualify people with adjectives. Look–you didn't for that therapist or for Stapleton."

"I called _you_ arrogant," John points out.

"Nevertheless," Sherlock says. "You didn't mean cheerful."

"Oh really?"

"You meant that his cheerfulness was annoying."

"Okay, well, I'm not about to go and write _that_ . . . "

"Why not?"

John can't think of the reason. "He _was_ pretty in your face about it." He's scribbling at the sentence already.

"You _hate_ cheerful people," Sherlock states.

"No, I hate _fake_ cheerful people. And he was fake, so . . . there. I guess." John tries very hard not to think about Sherlock's hand on the back of his chair, but he can feel it, and he's having trouble ignoring Sherlock's breath on the back of his neck now, too. "Perhaps I'm merely annoyed with Dr Frankland because he crashed my, you know, meeting with Louise, which ended with her walking off and me getting nowhere with her. With questioning her."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock walks around the desk to face him. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Because talking to you about women never ends well? "I dunno, I didn't think it was important."

" _Not_ important!" Sherlock's incredulous.

"Sorry, _how_ could that have helped?"

"I could've narrowed it down to Frankland much sooner had I known!" Sherlock sighs, oozing disappointment in John's thoughtlessness, then trudges back to his table.

John ought to hate Sherlock, really. Most people did. When you looked at the cause and effect of what Sherlock did, logically, it only made sense to hate him.

It's not unseemly that Sherlock has rightfully earned the ire of . . . well, of anyone he's ever encountered. But the way people can be so vicious in their disdain for him rubs John the wrong way. John's got this fundamental instinct to balk at people that let Sherlock get to them—you _cannot_ let him get to you, or he's already won, right there. And it's not as though Sherlock actively hates all that many people–he just doesn't see the point of caring about relative strangers. It also bothers John the people are often so contemptuous of Sherlock's abilities. I mean, Sherlock was a right arse, obviously, but he _was_ rather impressive, you had to give them that.

And anyway the being an arse thing only made the idea of tweezing out some sentiment from him all the more appealing. Got to expose his humanity and wave it in his face in triumph because, there, you see, Sherlock is not the only person capable of secret evil plans.

"Oh no, don't do that."

John hates that he jumps at surprise!Sherlock _again_. Sherlock had no concept of personal space. It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't like he was doing that on purpose, either. Maybe he really didn't think all the inexplicable bed-sharing was out of the ordinary. "Do what."

"Use exclamation marks to show excitement."

"Mmm. Why's that?"

"Well, you aren't using them in exciting sentences."

"Right. All the more reason to use them, then." John attempts to ignore him, then realizes he's about to use an exclamation mark and stops himself. He can feel Sherlock smirking from behind him. "What am I supposed to do to show excitement? Anyway I thought my blog was too boring for you to bother with."

"It is. Your dogged earnestness in writing it isn't."

"I thought we were here _because_ you had things to do? Sher—?" When John turns around Sherlock's already relocated to his table.

John's gets back into the zone of writing soon enough. It was weird—he'd found it laughably pointless when his therapist had first suggested he keep a blog, but now he looked forward to it. Then again, he wasn't exactly writing about his innermost thoughts and feelings, and mostly just speculated on what Sherlock's were. Which . . . probably wasn’t exactly the end result she'd hoped for.

From directly behind him: "John . . ."

"You write it!"

"I don't have time for that," Sherlock says dismissively, then taps his forehead. "All up here, anyway."

"Well, there you go, why don't you just go ahead and type it up since you apparently remember _every_ detail?"

"Because," Sherlock says, "I remember every detail."

John stares, not sure why he's even surprised anymore. "You've been letting me . . . _angst_ over getting it right all this time when you could've just . . . uploaded your memory? Or, you know, whatever?"

"It _is_ rather amusing to watch you try so hard, though."

"Oh, so I'm just here for your entertainment, am I? Tell me, did the skull do that flashy teppanyaki cooking for you? Magic tricks? _Actual_ magic? I can't live up to that."

Sherlock waits til John's ranted himself speechless. "Yes."

"Mm?"

"You are here for my entertainment." Sherlock returns to his table once again. "Really I've no idea why you still insist on typing up our cases."

"More cases, for one thing. It's a nice way to showcase what you do without people having to, you know. Meet you."

"Fine, but why do you write about the bits where I've been too slow or made mistakes? Few and far between, granted, but—"

John sighs. "We've _been_ over this. It makes you more personable."

"Hm. Remind me again why pointing out my flaws is good advertising for our business."

John wonders when Sherlock had stopped saying 'my work' and 'the case' and they'd become a 'we'. He hadn't even noticed it happening.

*

The first thing John sees is a familiar blurry greenish gaze inches from his face.

"Ah, you’re awake."

"No shit, Sherlock," John says, heart pounding from being wrenched into consciousness.

Sherlock, who he had to crane his neck back to look at properly. The fact that their limbs were completely intertwined was just a given, at this point, as was the sweat at John's temple from the heat of the sheets and Sherlock's body and his mild terror at the situation in general. How was it that Sherlock was still taller than him, anyway? They were _lying down_ , for God's sake . . .

The early morning light ushers in a sense of quiet, just to spite John's inner turmoil. Utterly still, silent rising sun that makes everything feel new. It splashes over the room and Sherlock and makes them meld, makes Sherlock look gold and otherworldly, which would be funny if it wasn't so breathtaking.

Sherlock is leaning closer, inexorable, and John is either too sleepy to have control of his muscles or he's been paralyzed by something else. He'd always thought he might punch Sherlock if he'd tried to kiss him, which also means that Sherlock kissing him is apparently something John's thought about.

John clambers upright instead, tangling in the sheets and possibly bruising one of Sherlock's insistent limbs somewhere along the way. He closes his eyes, presses himself against the headboard like its solidness will bring him back to earth, struggles to stop hyperventilating.

When he speaks, Sherlock's voice sounds so close he must've sat up, too, but John has this irrational fear that if he opens his eyes he'll just lunge at Sherlock and start kissing him before Sherlock's even finished talking.

"What must it be like to be ruled by hormones?" Sherlock muses. "Rather tiring, I imagine."

John laughs, doesn't open his eyes. Prays Sherlock might mistake this for normal behavior. "Who said anything about hormones?"

"I did." Sherlock pulls back the sheets. "Your blatant sexual arousal is also a bit of a giveaway."

And see, that's unfair, because John had been so hoping they could just pretend that wasn't a reality. He breathes out slowly before opening his eyes.

Sherlock's sitting up too, and he's still all golden and deceptively innocent looking with the remnants of sleep. His hair's such a tousled lost cause that John longs to mess it up even more, just to make something that's out of place about Sherlock be because of him.

Flick flick, go Sherlock's eyes. Sometimes, John wishes he could scan Sherlock right back. "Ah," Sherlock says. "You still don't understand."

"Understand what?"

Sherlock smirks.

John rolls his eyes. "Understand _what_ , Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifts the topic ever so slightly: "I'm a bit surprised you'd be so preoccupied with the possibility of a sexual relationship between us as a result of sharing a bed."

"I . . . how do you know I haven't instead be preoccupied with, say, the case, or residual trauma from when you drugged me, or shooting that, whatever, drug-induced monster in the hollow?"

"Oh, you can handle all that."

"I can—" It catches John a bit off guard—it was always difficult to decode genuine compliments with Sherlock, but whenever you came across one it was pretty damn rewarding.

"Well," Sherlock says, nods and rubs his hands together. "Let's get to it, then."

''To . . ."

"You want to have sex," Sherlock points out.

John laughs. "Oh, really? Ha. What makes you think—what makes you, ha, you know, just. Hilarious, you are. You know?"

Sherlock ignores him. "And we needn't worry about STD's, if that was of any concern to you. I've already tested myself."

"Oh, oka—sorry, _you_ have?"

"Yes. And for rather more than any idiot doctor would think to test for."

John keeps opening and closing his mouth.

"No offense."

"Right." John shakes his head.

"You haven't had sex since before you were deployed, and you would've had a physical, then."

"You _do_ realize I've had several girlfriends since I came home."

"Yes," Sherlock says blandly, and John rethinks that whole punching him thing, settles for sputtering indignantly instead. Sherlock peers at him. "John. John, you are malfunctioning. It's captivating."

"Did you–were you–just, is this out of genuine interest or . . . like . . . _scientific_ interest?"

"I fail to see the difference."

"So, I mean, you _are_ gay, or . . . ?"

Sherlock sighs. "I don't understand this preoccupation with the physical. Do normal people honestly just develop sentiment over particular body parts only? Bit unimaginative . . ."

"Ugh, just. Too much talking. Far too much talking in general."

"Shall we do something else instead?" Sherlock is deadpan as hell but John can tell he's not at all oblivious, and he isn't sure whether to laugh or—

Sherlock doesn't really _kiss him_ kiss him, at first–he sort of brushes his mouth against John's as if testing the texture, then retreats, then does it again and doesn't seem sure of what happens next so John tilts has head to deepen it. He licks Sherlock's mouth open with quietly shocking ease and Sherlock responds to that much less hesitantly, running his tongue along John's and into his mouth to tickle and tease and make John start to melt from the dizzying surges of heat curling up his spine.

John doesn't know what to do with his hands, then realizes belatedly that they've taken it upon themselves to run up Sherlock's arms, upsetting the sleeves of his surprisingly soft pajama shirt and reveling in the heat and muscle and sinew beneath the fabric.

Sherlock kisses him harder against the headboard and John is not proud of the whimper that escapes him, but luckily Sherlock answers it with a sweet little moan that has John torn between making fun of him and just throwing him down and ravishing him immediately.

Sherlock beats him to the punch, however. He presses John sort of sideways, kissing with some difficulty while sliding down the headboard until they're horizontal.

Sherlock hovers over him and John is pathetically turned on by the mere potential between them. The way John wants him is something he feels in his teeth, his toes, the ache of fingertips. When had _that_ happened?

He doesn't know what to do about it, just reaches for Sherlock and gets to work on the buttons of his shirt while Sherlock watches, searing eyes jumping between John's fingers and his face, and he traces over John's cheek and nose and mouth like he still hasn't made the connection between John the person and John the physical entity, which was probably actually true in Sherlock's case.

And John's got to keep Sherlock looking dazed and immobile so he kisses Sherlock's neck while prying open the final few buttons, gets a series of lovely gasps for his trouble, then twists himself lower on the bed so he can mouth down Sherlock's chest to tongue at a nipple until Sherlock's grinding his cock against John's stomach like he can't help it.

Sherlock shimmies suddenly down the bed until their faces are level again, scans John obsessively and John wishes more than ever that he could read everything about Sherlock in his face, too. John goes to kiss him and Sherlock complies for a minute, then disappears and settles so so quickly between John's legs, catches the involuntary hand that had flown into his hair and sucks John's middle finger in such fantastically explicit preview that it has John impossibly harder and quite unable to stop the strangled sound that's caught in his throat.

John feels his every muscle relax, feels himself sink back into the mattress. He loves this part–the moment when everything suddenly shifts from exquisite anticipation to intoxicating lack of control at the hands of somebody else. Giving control of anything to Sherlock was either very wise or very, _very_ unwise, and the uncertainty that came with that was more or less what John lived for anymore, so why not throw caution to the wind and give up control to him in this, too?

And anyway Sherlock is doing some pretty mind-shatteringly acrobatic things with his tongue just now, so it's probably gonna be okay.

John loses himself in the velvety bliss of it all, closes his eyes against the wash of pleasure for awhile and writhes around involuntarily until Sherlock stills him with hands more firmly at his hips than they'd needed to be, really, but the notion of being held down and driven mad like this, by Sherlock no less, is one that John finds infinitely appealing.

Sherlock's shirt hanging open, shades of paleness leant an artificial cast of color from the sunrise, cock straining unsubtly against the trappings of his pajama bottoms and John's never seen him so deliciously disheveled. He resolves to make this a regular occurrence in his life.

"Sh . . . shh- _ah_ . . . _shhh_ . . ."

"The name’s Sherlock," Sherlock supplies.

"Sh . . . _shut_ up . . ."

"Surely." And with that Sherlock sucks John's cock back into his mouth, perfect hot suction and his hand working at the base. He concentrates on the head for a torturously glorious eternity before bobbing more steadily, in and out and God, John just needs _more_ . . .

John must have said so out loud, because Sherlock then pulls off his cock altogether and jerks him with both hands until John gasps and shutters and comes rather embarrassingly loudly. It's been awhile, okay? And what with Sherlock looking so bloody fuckable, just . . . John is allowed, goddammit.

John's body is awash in sensation, dulling him beautifully to the rest of the world, but Sherlock of course spoils it by wiping his incredibly sticky hand on John's shirt because of course he does. _Of_ course.

Sherlock comes into view again and John's muzzy ire quickly fades. John really, really has to kiss Sherlock because, just look, his mouth is far too swollen and beggingly wet not to, so John seizes Sherlock's dangling shirt with both hands and brings him down into a kiss. It's a bit weird to taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, but it's also rather thrillingly dirty. John can't stop groping at him, feeling his so-soft skin, his exposed heaving chest and the tenseness of the muscles in his arms as they work to keep him upright.

"Interesting," Sherlock says when they part for air. Then he hops off the bed in one fluid motion and leaves John abruptly cold.

John sits up, is instantly lightheaded. "What're you . . . just. What?"

But Sherlock's busy sorting through his suitcase by now. "There's a train within the hour. I don't think they're likely to let me onboard looking like this."

"I. But." John shakes his head. "No, come on, you still haven't got off. Come here."

"Oh, I don't crave physical satisfaction the same way that you do. I am infinitely more in control of myself." Sherlock says this while standing naked with a vermillion blush spreading it over his neck and chest, and with one very obvious erection jutting out from his body.

"So this is your definition of 'not doing anything'? _You_ never get off, but it's okay to do it to other people?"

"Essentially."

"Oh, well, we are putting a stop to that immediately . . ."

"John, it's not a—what are you doing."

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're standing on my coat."

"Maybe you shouldn't've put it on the floor, then, awfully slippery isn— _shit_!"

"Indeed," Sherlock says, having landed on the floor half inside his open suitcase and with John on top of him.

"Well, this works out nicely." John scoots to the side a bit so he can slip his hand beneath the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and wrap it around Sherlock's cock and kiss along his jaw at the same time. " _Don't_ tell me you aren't enjoying this at least a little," he says into Sherlock's ear.

John watches Sherlock swallow, moves his hand faster. "There's a certain . . . Joh . . . _Jjjj_ . . . "

"Je ne sais quoi?"

"I . . . I'm . . . tu vas être la morte de moi."

"Oh my G—just, please feel free to speak in French all the time, and especially right now."

Sherlock grabs at John's shirt, fists up the fabric and arcs his hips helplessly. His head falls back, unsupported at this awkward angle, which exposes his neck rather gorgeously so John concentrates on sucking at it while he brings Sherlock off.

"Sherlock," John breathes, not trying to get his attention or anything—it's just that he's as enraptured by watching him as Sherlock is by his building orgasm. Sherlock looks up at his name anyway, catches John's eye and of course John can never not look right back at him, so he gets to see Sherlock's eyes widen and unfocus and quiver closed when he comes.

*

_"Almost ready?"_

_"In a minute." Sherlock doesn't look up from his laptop. In the background, John just sighs and continues packing. Sherlock can still smell the lingering cigarette smoke, no matter that Henry had left half an hour ago._

_The website alone gives it away. The photo gallery featuring pictures of the owners cinches it._

_Sherlock clicks on the adamant Make A Reservation Now! button and types in all the appropriate information, then scrolls down to the box for Special Requests._

> _My boyfriend's a bit wary of our relationship being advertised after some bad experiences in the past. He isn't out, publicly, so I'd very much appreciate it if you could refrain from mentioning to him that I'm booking us a single room._

> _Thank you for your discretion._

> _SH_

_"All set?" John's standing over him, suitcases in tow._

_Sherlock flashes a quick little smile, hits Send and closes his laptop. "Definitely."_

*


End file.
